


Mist

by Lutka



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bakugou Katsuki Swears A Lot, Cannibalism, Child Abuse, Child Death, Explicit Language, Female Midoriya Izuku, Human Experimentation, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Organ Theft, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Soulmates, Please Don't Kill Me, Timeline What Timeline, Trans Midoriya Izuku, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-08-13 02:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lutka/pseuds/Lutka
Summary: Most Mists have at least a few screws loose, it’s a universal rule. There of course could be exceptions to this rule, but Rukudo Izumi was not one of them. Years worth of trauma and Reborn’s bullshit made sure of that. It was also nearly impossible to get an idea out of a Mist’s head once it’s implanted.So watch out world! For better or worse, Rukudo Izumi is going to be a hero.Currently being rewritten. Updated chapter two has been released!





	1. The Day Logic Drove Itself Off A Cliff

**Author's Note:**

> The combining of the My Hero Academia timeline and Reborn timeline has proven to be a fun and horrible mess. For some reason you are reading that mess. Enjoy it if you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 12/25/2019  
Sorry for taking so long to update! Or well, sort of update. When I started this story I had only a few basic ideas, but no major changes in mind. But then something big hit me, an idea that needs lots of build up. Build up that the first chapters doesn't currently have and really should be mentioned in the beginning of the story. So long story short I am rewriting the beginning.  
Thank you all for reading and all your support!

Cold isn't just a lack of heat; it's the lack of feeling. It is a numbness or emotional distance. The forcing down of compassion and freezing of the blood with apathy. It’s a weapon to be wielded against others and a shield against the world. Against heroes and anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.

The cold is Wakimaeru’s strongest ally and worst enabler. It allows him to do terrible and sometimes necessary things in the name of survival. Helps him to be the bastard holding the gun rather than the sucker on the other end.

It also keeps him from knowing when to stop and run. Blinds his eyes and bites his ears till he can’t tell that the grave he’s digging is his own. Numbs his fingers until he can’t move them to put down the shovel. So he digs, and digs, and digs himself down further and further. Small crimes turn to big ones. Stolen wallets and jewelry become stolen children and organs.

Someday the snow and ice will melt, leaving him to drown in his crimes. In the sorrow he has created and the blood he’s shed. Wakimaeru lives on borrowed time and stolen lives and luck that’ll run out someday. He knows this and fights it everyday for one more tomorrow, and one more tomorrow, and one more tomorrow. Day after day.

Stone cold eyes scan through potential targets. They don’t linger too long on people with obvious mutations, like the boy with red wings. Organs from those with mutant quirks have high rejection rates, making them useless to him. They’re not worth the trouble, even if you know what you’re looking for.

His eyes slide next to a child with fizzing fireworks bursting from his hands. Wakimaeru quickly marks him down as a  _ no way in hell _ . He can practically feel the burns and hear sirens already. The young man quickly observes his surroundings to make sure it’s just his imagination. Cause yeah" he’s paranoid. He’s a criminal with over a dozen deaths on his soul-

_ Quirkless _ , Wakimaeru’s quirk diagnoses as his gaze slides over a head of green hair. His hawk-like stare locks upon the target with the intensity of a starving vulture.  _ Jackpot. _

_ Guess who’s not getting his ass kicked today,  _ he thinks. Giddy with the relief of guaranteed success.  _ No quirk. No fight. No surprises. _

Oh how wrong he is.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Where the hell is Deku?” Bakugou Katsuki growls, prowling through the park like a hell hound on the hunt. His crimson eyes scour anything even slightly green with ferocity, as if  _ daring _ it to continue hiding his best friend. Tsubasu and the others lag behind him hesitantly. Wide eyed and worried, they watch the shadows grow and shaky hands spark. The growl of their stomachs is loud against the quiet of an almost empty park.

“Maybe we should yell we give up,” Tsubasu suggests reasonably, his wings pulled close to keep himself warm as the sun fades. “Then she’ll come out and we can go home.”

Most of the other boys nod along, eager to get home and be warm and full. Katsuki, to put it mildly, has a very different idea.

“Hell no extras! We’re not leaving until I fucking win. Got that,” Katsuki demands. Turning to glare at his ‘friends’ with blazing eyes, daring them to speak against him. The sparks in his hands burn an almost hypnotic orange and the others follow without question for half an hour more. Shadows both physical and mental closing in around them like vultures around a corpse.

“Katsuki where’s Izuku? It’s almost time to take him home.” The boy bites back a snarl as  _ that  _ name hits his ears like a rock to the head. For a moment, Katsuki is almost glad they have not found his soul-sister yet That she is not here to wince and wilt and be force herself to reassure Masaru nothing is wrong. Forced to pretend to be someone she isn’t because adults can be  _ stupid. _

“I don’t know,” The blonde whispers. The admission is strained and painful, comparable to being forced to swallow gunpowder. And wherever there is gunpowder, there is always a risk of explosion.

“What did you say Katsuki?”

“I said I don’t know!” Katsuki shouts, his anger burning like a fire in his throat. He isn’t quite sure what he is angry at but  _ oh  _ he is angry. Angry at the world for being terrible and at the adults for not changing that. Pissed at Auntie Inko and the others for not catching on and reassuring them. For them not making sure Izumi knows she will be loved no matter what. He is mad at Izumi herself for getting herself lost and for being scared. For not believing in Auntie Inko and his parents because a few little shits say she has too many soulmarks.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Katsuki please, where is Izuku?” Masaru kneels before his son, places a hand on his shoulder, and looks him dead in the eye. The plea is like water, dousing the fire of Katsuki’s rage and leaving him cold and shaking. Peeling away the boy’s mask of anger to reveal something even worse, fear.

Katsuki would later deny crying, because that is Izumi’s thing. Izumi with those damn fountain eyes she is named after. He is just sweating… near his eyes.

“We were playing hide-and-seek with Deku. I-I don’t know where they are.” Masaru’s breath catches in his throat. The older Bakugo attempts to give the kids a calm, reassuring smile. Careful trying to hide the panic those words spark inside him.

_ Mitsuki is going to kill me. And even worse, Inko is going to cry. _

He pulls his kid into a tight hug. As if he holds on with long enough the world will stop collapsing and this will all be over. Sadly though, it was only the beginning.

“It’s going to be okay Katsuki. I’m going to call the police real quick and they’ll find Izuku. Maybe he’ll even get to meet a hero, wouldn’t that be great?” Masaru’s attempts at reassurance are met with clenched, shaking fists and uncomfortable silence. The man gives his son one last squeeze before standing to address the entire group, “Let’s get the rest of you home. It will be a lot easier for them to do their job without us around.”

The children follow along hesitantly. Like baby ducks following their mother as the echo of gunshots filled the air. Katsuki peers into the forest one last time, desperate to catch a glimpse of his sister.

_ Where are you Deku? _

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wakimaeru is by no means a medical expert. Despite ‘transporting’ organs for almost three years, he still can’t tell a gallbladder from a pancreas or the difference between a liver and a kidney. He knows a few things though, or at least, he thought he did.

Without your kidneys you die. Without your liver you die. Without your liver, kidneys, and pancreas; you fucking die. Part of the whole  _ mortality  _ thing and all. Apparently the kid in front of him never got the memo.

The boy’s organs rest in a nearby cooler. Only a minute ago he was to be yet another life ended on the cold, unforgiving table. Transformed into an empty husk under the watch of greedy, dispassionate eyes. Another child, another set of crying eyes turned empty, another series of final words falling on careless ears. But apparently, things aren’t allowed to be fucking simple.

_ “I want to be a hero.” _

The words themselves didn’t surprise Wakimaeru. Everyone dreams of heroism at some point in their lives. Of being the rich, powerful, and adored. Even he once shared that dream. Puffing his chest and posing ‘heroically’ in front of a mirror, he once proclaimed the exact same thing. Back when he was a child, young and hopeful. Before trouble buried him like an avalanche and his attempts to dig himself out only doomed him further. Before he had found the soul-mark matching his and knew his fate.

What really surprises him is what always seems to get him in the end, the consequences. The power of decisions and words and  _ determination _ .

A spark of purple flame appears in the gaping incision along the boy’s body. Its glow is almost otherworldly, giving off both light and darkness. Screaming with an_ ancient_ power despite having burst into existence mere seconds ago. A terrible thought crosses through Wakimaeru’s mind.

_ Is this what hellfire looks like? _

In the blink of an eye it expands and twists into familiar shapes. Molding itself to match the contents of the cooler. So that once again, the boy has two kidneys, liver, and pancreas.

_ Impossible _ , the organ trafficker thinks. But in this world of both flames and quirks, very little falls into that category.

“Fascinating,” the Doctor breathes; eyes burning with a dark hope. She reaches for the cheapest item on the improvised surgical table, a plastic glove, and lowers it towards a kidney. It never even touches the organ. Instead the surface returns to flame and twists away from the object. Moving around it like water displaced by a stone. The child makes a noise of pain but does not wake up. Completely drained by ... whatever this is.

The Doctor pulls the glove back and the flames resettle and fade. Leaving behind what appears to be a perfectly normal organs. The Doctor gives a low hum, her mind racing.

“Wakimaeru, you said the boy is quirkless. Is that correct?” The Doctor’s surgical mask muffles her words but fails to hide their eagerness. She wants something, some special answer. The final piece of a grand puzzle only she can see. And if he doesn’t want to end up replacing the kid on her surgical table, he’ll say what she wants to hear. Too bad he has no idea what the fuck that is.

“It’s what my quirk says,” Wakimaeru asserts defensively, his posture going rigid. The stone of his eyes seems to crack, revealing the fear and paranoia dwelling underneath. It is not an easy admission to make.

This isn’t a "things happen" kind of mistake or something he can blame on someone else. It wasn’t a civilian that couldn’t mind their own damn business or a hero straying from their regular patrol route. Something went wrong with his quirk, with  _ him _ . Wakimaeru’s quirk made a liar out of him, and Doctor despises liars. (Or at least, the people who lie to her.)

His gaze falls to the surgical table. Wakimaeru has seen the Doctor cut open countless people with those tools. It is far too easy to imagine himself in their place. Parental soul-mark be damned.

She places her tools down with barely a noise. The small  _ clinks _ against the table are nearly drowned out by the child’s troubled breathing. It is the most terrifying sound he’s ever heard.

He waits for her to do something. For the biting accusations, violent promises, and hateful whispers. To be frozen in place and cut open while his soul-mother commends herself for making such a noble sacrifice.

_ ‘One sacrifice saves at least ten lives. How could it not be worth it?’’ _ It’s strange to think he’s heard her say one damn phrase a thousand times but has never heard her name. It’s even stranger to realize some have heard her name a thousand times but will never hear her thoughts. Never know her true nature. 

What comes out of her mouth instead is something he’s never heard before:

“You did great Wakimaeru.” A smile stretches her surgical mask. “I’m proud of you.”

It shouldn’t take him bringing the  _ right _ kid to die to make her proud. Being praised for such an act shouldn’t feel almost worth it. (But it does.)

The Doctor does not move to hug or harm him. Instead her hands reach for stitching needles and surgical thread. With steady hands, she begins a task unfamiliar to her. Attempting to keep her victim alive. Wakimaeru flinches when the needle pokes through the skin. As if it is his own being pierced.

“What are you doing? Don’t you still have a heart to collect?” The Doctor gives him an unimpressed look. As if to say  _ yes, I completely forgot about the still beating heart right in front of me. Thanks for the reminder. _

“Have you heard about the quirk-awakening phenomenon?” The Doctor begins, seemingly avoiding his question. Hands still working at a steady pace. “It’s when someone develops a quirk after nearly dying, even if they already had one. You want to know the real amazing part though?”

The Doctor pushes a hand to the stitched wound, wisps of yellow flickering around her fingers. Skin grows and meshes back together, sealing up the wound in seconds. She shoots him a conspiratol grin.

_ Blood Match- _ Wakimaeru’s quirk reads-  _ The ability to change a person’s blood type to match another's.  _

Once again, his quirk deceived him. Or does it?

“These powers go against everything we know about quirks. They don’t appear when you check someone’s quirk factor and can occur in people with the extra little-toe joint. And in a lot of cases, your parents quirks has absolutely no effect on what you get. Some see this as proof of the Quirk Evolution theory. Others wonder-”

“If they’re even really quirks,” Wakimaeru finishes, either catching on or falling hook-line-and-sinker for the most ambitious lie he’s ever heard. It sounds absolutely insane, so it fits the situation perfectly.

“Exactly. People have spent a whole lot of money trying to figure this out. To weaponize and replicate it. And we’ve just found them a perfect little test subject.” The Doctor turns to meet his eyes. The ambition burning in their shared gaze could burn a city, or reduce each other to ash.

“I get twenty-five percent” Wakimaeru claims. Raising a gloved hand to shake her own. 

“It’s a deal kid.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Heroes always win. They always save the day! _

The crate is dark, smelly, and cramped as a hoarder’s basement. There is no room for Izumi to bend or move her limbs at all. Instead, the girl lies stiff and still like a doll in a box or a corpse in a coffin. Trapped like princess stuck in her tower, waiting for a hero. Waiting and waiting  _ and waiting…. _

Minutes pass by, a mile is traveled, and a girl waits expectantly.

_ Never fear-for I am here! _

The ship definitely has a rat infestation. They squeak and scurry throughout the cargo hold looking for something to eat, occasionally stopping to sniff and scratch at her crate. Izumi is almost glad to be boxed in in those moments. She may not have light, but she is protected from one thing at least.

Hours and miles of journeying pile up, and a girl fears.

_ A hero will come eventually … Right? _

Izumi wonders every time she hears someone, when the echoes of footsteps and shouts reach her tiny ears. She wonders if the shattering of bottles and yelled curses are signs of fighting above deck. The girl hopes the footsteps she hears are those of a hero coming to save her. And is disappointed when once again the hour is the only thing that changes. She is still trapped, it is still dark, and the heroes have not arrived. In those moments, she wonders if they ever will. 

_ Everything will be okay. It has to be. _

Days go by, miles traveled become more than those left, and the girl hopes.

The girl’s few moments of rest produce some of the strangest dreams she’s had in her life. With her going from being chased by rats the size of dogs to flying with All Might to being cut open by the Tooth Fairy for swallowing a tooth. This latest dream takes the cake though.

It begins with Izumi lying on a cold stone floor with children in white uniforms. The children play with her hair, soft giggles falling from their mouths. They almost look like ghosts with their various scars and injuries.

A boy with bandages around his head attempts to braid bits of her hair. With how hard he is focusing, the boy does not notice the ash-blonde child beside him undoing his previous work. When the blonde and greenette’s eyes meet, he gives her a conspiratol grin. Unable to help herself, the girl lets out a laugh.

Bandage boy jumps at the noise, taking her hair with him. Izumi yelps at the pull on her scalp and the boy quickly lets go. Izumi lifts a shaky hand to where the pain pulses like a second heartbeat near her skull. The tears gathering in her eyes finally spill over as she realizes something terrible, that this is not some weird dream. Everything that has happened is completely real.

Words spill into her ears, but they are all meaningless to her. Be it the soft whispers of the pink eyed boy beside her or the shouting match between bandage boy and blondy, she cannot understand a single word.

To quote All Might in one of his lesser known interviews: “Shit."


	2. This is Actually Happening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read a few parental soulmate stories and now am in love with the concept. You can pry it from my cold, dead hands.

Nothing about the funeral feels  _ real  _ to Katsuki. The few rays of sunlight pushing their way through the clouds are dull and without warmth. As if some dumb ass had the fucking  _ brilliant  _ idea to replace the sun with a cheap light bulb. Some people go up to say a few words, others say a few too many. All of their voices sound distant and distorted, as if they were underwater. Katsuki gives up on even trying to listen after a third  _ ‘Izuku’  _ burns his ears.

The boy clutches Auntie Inko’s hand like a lifeline the entire time. In a sea of gray gravestones and black mourning clothes, the inside of their palms seem to hold the only bit of color in the whole world. Two matching slivers of jade green in a tiny, monochrome universe. One so different from the loud and bright world of heroes Katsuki is used to.

In this world, All Might does not always save the day. In this world, the villains sometimes win. Bold costumes and courageous smiles no longer mean everything will be okay. And worst of all, there is no Izumi.

Midoriya Izumi, Katsuki’s soul sister, is gone.

Deku, his first and best friend, is  _ dead _ .

Midoriya Izuku, as always, does not exist. He is the one that gets a gravestone.

**Midoriya Izuku**

**July 15th 20XX**

**July 8th 20XX**

** _Beloved son and friend_ **

Looking at the stone, everything feels real in a way it did not before. This is actually happening. The heroes have stopped looking for Deku, she is never going to be saved. Only a week has gone by and they’ve declared her dead.

Bakugou Katsuki saw his best friend only a few days ago, and now they are standing around a tiny, empty casket in a field of graves. Carving a name that is not hers onto her own damn grave marker.

_ This is bullshit! _

Katsuki wants to say those words and so much more. Wants to tell Auntie Inko the name that  _ should _ be on that gravestone and scream at someone to change it. To make at least one thing right, but he does not. Because for all he was mad at Deku for being scared, he is too.

What if Auntie Inko is not as good of a person as he thinks? What if Izumi was right to be scared? And most importantly- what would Izumi have wanted? How would she want to be remembered? Katsuki does not know, so he keeps quiet. Letting resentment fill him like a balloon ready to burst. And it will, soon enough.

A man bows towards the pair after the wake ends, black curls falling into his face like vines. “I’m sorry for failing you.”

Katsuki sees red.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few seconds of awkward silence, a twitch of fingers, and screams.

Aizawa rears back to avoid a fist full of sparks and smoke aimed at his face. The hero activates his quirk on instinct, eliciting a few gasps from the crowd. Strands of his dark hair rise like a nest of snakes ready to strike. Crimson eyes glowing with power meet those blazing with rage. For a moment, everyone is still as stone, petrified by the scene before them.

And in the middle of it all stands a boy. Smoke dissipating from his palms, shaking with a rage beyond his years.

“Eat shit,” he huffs between ragged breaths. Eyes both wild and eerily focused, a lion staring down their prey. “Eat shit you rat bastard.”

The blonde launches himself at the hero again, only to reverse mid air. Tiny legs kick wildly as the boy floats, pulled by his own jacket, toward a woman with an outstretched palm. Aizawa could have found the scene almost uplifting if not for the all too familiar mark on her hand. A green eye brimmed with tears, mirroring the pair on her face.

Aizawa is instantly glad he wore a suit jacket despite the summer heat. “Shit.”

“Katsuki,” the greenette begins, voice shaking as she holds back tears. The boy stumbles as he is unsteadily lowered to the ground. A hand reaches down to wipe tears on his burning cheeks. “ _ Please _ stop.”

Tiny fists shake unraised at the blonde’s sides. A scowl trembles upon Katsuki’s lips as he shoots the woman a feeble glare.  _ “No! No! No! No! No!” _

“You can’t! You can’t just  _ forgive _ him. He failed us. He failed Dek-” The boy stops as abruptly as he began, red eyes going wide at the sight of tears spilling over soft cheeks. His voice, once loud like a gunshot, becomes quiet. A whisper of wind in the still graveyard. “Auntie Inko?”

The woman attempts to smile, but her lips shake terribly. Her voice is not any better. “Th-they tr-trie,” she pauses, taking a breath to collect herself. When she looks up again, there is a new strength in her gaze. That of a stone worn down by the river, but not yet cracked. “They tried their best Katsuki. Sometimes...that’s all you can do.”

The boy considers this for a single second, looks her dead in the eyes, and swears. “I will be better.”

“I hope you will kid,” says Aizawa. Reentering the fold with a few words and a tissue for the woman. Stiffer than a board under the attention of the crowd. Katsuki snatches it with a growl and turns to gently wipe his aunt’s cheeks. A weak laugh escapes her mouth.

“Thank you Katsuki,” Inko whispers as the boy finishes up. “And thank you….”

“Aizawa,” answers the hero. Hesitating only momentarily. “Aizawa Shouta.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ “Happy Birthday to me,” _ Izumi begins, clutching her tiny knees to her chest. Timid and unsure, her voice is almost lost to the sound of snores. _ “Happy Birthday to me.” _

_ “Happy Birthday dear Izumi.”  _ Familiar voices join in as she continues to sing. Her mom and Uncle Masaru’s soft tones accompanied by Kacchan and Aunt Mitsuki’s rough ones. By this point, the young girl is more sobbing than singing, but the others remain cheerful. Almost eerily happy in contrast to the darkness and misery around them.

_ “Happy Birthday to me.” _


	3. False Flowers and False Hopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello little Mist,” Mukuro trills, waving his soul-marked hand in hello. The girl gaped at the mark, a hand reaching towards it’s match on her throat.

Rukuou Mukuro stared at the chain around his right hand. An insubstantial and inexplicable pattern on his skin. It has been there for as long as he can remember. Longer than the scientists and their torture. Before his world had been enveloped in death and pain. It is one of the few things that stayed with him through dying and drifting through hell again and again.

He might have been born with it for all he knows. Born with a sign that he will one day be holding the chains instead of being chained. Free and in control of his destiny and those of the ones around him. A mark of his grand destiny.

Only three other children in the facility have marks of destiny. Each one the same, a slim chain wrapped around their throats. A sign that they were Mukuro’s, his to protect and to be protected by. He knew it, and apparently the scientists did too.

The lead researcher came into his cell with a smile that made Mukuro want to pull the man’s teeth out.  _ Slowly _ .

If Izumi’s smile had been weak but reassuring, this man’s was the opposite. It was intimidating, malicious, and cold. Mukuro returned it with enough venom to kill an elephant. The bastard didn’t even blink.

“We’ve got someone here for you project six. Play nice while we get ready. Understood?” The researcher more stated then asked. He casually tossed a child with familiar green hair into the cell. The girl landed without a hint of grace on her side, groaning in pain. The man quickly turned to leave the room, not bothering to look at her. Izumi managed to push herself into a sitting position with shaking arms, eyes rapidly taking in the area.

“Hello little Mist,” Mukuro trills, waving his soul-marked hand in hello. The girl gaped at the mark, a hand reaching towards it’s match on her throat.

There is a period of silence as the girl struggles to find the right words and hold in the wrong ones. She has many questions. Where are they? Who is he? Why did they have to meet like this? Is one of their torturers their parental soul link?

Why is this happening to them? Why is the world so cruel? What are her chances of surviving what the strange man has planned? How is she even alive right now?

“Why do you call me Mist?” Izumi asks instead. Settling for a question the boy was sure to be able to answer and probably won’t send her into a panic.

_ They kidnapped a civilian, _ Mukuro realized,  _ I can work with this. _

The boy let out a laugh that would have unnerved the girl if she hadn’t grown up with Kacchan. Her friend can get scary when competitive, really scary.

“That’s what we are my dear Izumi. We are Mists. The illusionists, tricksters, and creators. Capable of making both one's wildest dreams and worst nightmares come true,” Mukuro explained, placing a crown of purple flowers upon Izumi’s head with a little too much force. The girl attempted to give him a calming smile as alarm bells went off in her head.

_ Oh shit. This guy is crazy. _

“So Mist is a quirk that tricks the senses. What makes you think I have it? My parents don’t have a quirk like that” Izumi asks hesitantly, hand brushing against the flowers. They feel more real than the plastic kind, but are a bit off. Their smell too strong and image lacking any imperfections or shadows. All the petals even and untorn. They look perfect, which in itself is false and unnatural. They also give off a strange energy that is familiar yet unnerving.

“Kufufufu. Flames aren’t quirks, little Mist. They have nothing to do with your parents. As for proof, you’re using them right now. I don’t believe I’ve felt you stop using them since you got here. Why is that?” Mukuro peers down at the girl with no regard for personal space. His red eye glowed strangely in the dim light of the cell. Izumi’s mind went whirling. Analyzing his statements for any reasonable explanation. Her eyes land on her stomach.

_ Does he mean?  _

“Organs! I- I made my own organs after they were ... taken. Maybe that’s what you’re sensing. You did say Mists are creators. And I know I haven’t stopped doing whatever it is that made the organs because then I’d be dead. They looked like fire at first, so maybe it’s a variation of my dad’s quirk. Fire doesn’t make good organs organs though. That would probably kill me. Fire resistance could be a factor, but the flame organs don’t give off any heat. Now that I think about it they were purple too. Can fire even be purple-”

“You’re rambling little Mist,” Mukuro interrupts, “And what is this about your organs being taken?”  _ Who do I have to destroy for trying to kill what’s mine. For causing you to end up in this hell hole. _

The boy’s tone is like the eerie screech of a violin, setting Izumi’s nerves on edge. She can feel the bloodlust and power radiating off of her soul brother in waves. There is a promise of violent retribution in the air, a typhoon of human rage and vengeance, and she could give it direction. With a couple of words she could damn the ones who almost killed her to a fate worse than death. She could end the villains who hurt her and the heroes who failed her by giving this hell hound in human skin their scent.

But…..

“They’re gone. There’s nothing more to say about it,” Izumi declared. Her soul brother’s heterochromatic eyes narrow in distaste as he pouts. Like he was being denied dessert instead of a hit-list. Izumi almost laughs at the insanity of it. Then she remembers she is locked in a cell with said insanity and proceeds to be fucking terrified.

For the first time in his life, Mukuro hates seeing fear in another’s eyes. It is not satisfying like when his torturers react to his promises of vengeance. The fear in his companion’s eyes is a sign of failure, not power. A sign that  _ he _ is doing something wrong, but what?

“You must know something little Mist. Why protect those criminals? If it was up to them, you’d be dead.” This time Izumi doesn’t recoil from the questioning. There is a fire in her eyes and steel in her spine. A righteous certainty comes over her. 

“Because you would kill them.” It’s a statement of fact. They’ve known each other for only mere minutes, but to Izumi, Mukuro’s intentions are as clear as day. As if they were written in ink right on his face. The older Mist gave her a flat look.

“Why shouldn’t I? They’re criminals, murderers who do nothing but hurt innocent people. They deserve to be exterminated like the rats they are. So why won’t you tell me?” Mukuro persists, frustration leaking into his voice.

_ How can she seem so intelligent when talking about quirks but be so foolish about this! _

“I- I can’t. I won’t!,” Izumi shouts back, “I won’t risk you getting yourself killed. A true hero would never let a kid kill for them.”

“Why should we care what heroes do and don’t do? They’ve done nothing for us. What good is trying to be like the heroes who failed us?”

A blurry image forms behind the girl. It’s of a man that is either extremely tall or just seen as such in the mind of his young fan. The brightness of his hair and smile almost blind Mukuro, who has only ever known darkness and burning cold. It makes him both want to lean in like a flower towards the sun and scamper away like a sewer rat from flood water.

Mukuro’s biting words die in his throat. There is a  _ power  _ radiating off the figure, even with the shakiness of the illusion. It’s almost overwhelming and unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Strong without being cruel like the beings from Hell. Intimidating without being threatening like their captors. The boy knows instinctively that this figure was stronger than him, but for once, the thought doesn’t terrify him.

Izumi jumps at the opportunity to speak. Passion coloring her every word. Her illusion seems to solidify, colors growing almost impossibly brighter.

“We can be better than them. We will be better than them! Some day people will know they are safe when they see we,-”

_ “Are Here!”  _

Finishes the illusion. The younger child jumps. Finally becoming aware of the illusion’s existence as it fades away.

For the first time in his life, Mukuro laughs with true humor instead of to intimidate. That doesn't stop Izumi from being  _ very _ intimidated.

“No-not that you have to be a hero! That's just my dream, but it could become yours too. Or you could be a zoo keeper or a teacher. You could be anything you want-,” Izumi suddenly trails off, letting out an awkward chuckle.

“I’m so sorry, I never asked for your name.” The girl looked towards Mukuro, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. He gave her a tight smile, muscles straining from the unfamiliar motion.

“I am Rokudo Mukuro, little Mist, but I won’t mind if you call me brother. Just not in front of the scientists, it might give them… ideas,” Mukuro paused, discomfort briefly covering his face, “May I know who the illusion you produced is?” The boy uselessly feigned disinterest to the fangirl. Izumi’s smile nearly split her face in half, ready to drag her brother into hero fandom by his ears if necessary.

“You don’t know who All Might is! Actually that kind of makes sense if you grew up here. He’s the Number One Hero in Japan who always saves people with a smile. I want to be just like him when I grow up,” Izumi declared, punching the air for effect.

“All Might,” Mukuro repeated, voice barely above a whisper. In that moment, the hero’s smile flashed in Mukuro’s mind. Kind, protective, and strong. All traits reflected in his fellow Mist.

_ She’ll be a hero, _ Mukuro decided,  _ Hell better be prepared for those who attempt to stop her. _


	4. Hell Screams Around Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Countless invisible beings attempt to eat him and each other. Mad with starvation and thirst. They claw and bite at the boy’s legs, ready to swarm him should he slow or fall. It doesn’t take a genius to know that if Mukuro goes down, he will never get up again. The Mist refuses to let that happen.

Rukudo Mukuro is not surprised in any way shape or form when he is killed. Enraged like a bull tortured before a ‘fight’, but not surprised. He is part of the Rebirth Project afterall, and one cannot be born again until they have died. Or, as in his case, are put into a state of near death long enough for the soul to leave the body. A condition that could become permanent if he doesn’t act fast enough.

Sometimes Mukuro considers simply staying in the Realms of Rebirth. Letting the scientist’s time and work amount to nothing right before their eyes. Those thoughts don’t last too long this time.

Countless invisible beings attempt to eat him and each other. Mad with starvation and thirst. They claw and bite at the boy’s legs, ready to swarm him should he slow or fall. It doesn’t take a genius to know that if Mukuro goes down, he will never get up again. The Mist refuses to let that happen.

No matter how many times he stabs them, they keep coming back. Their desperation outweighing pain and thought. Mind overtaken by a need they will never be able to fulfill. Mukuro almost pities the poor creatures, until he hears a shrill scream. A snarl escapes the boy’s throat as his eyes catch sight of fluffy green hair.

Izumi uselessly attacks the creatures with her fists, but they don’t even pause. The beating of her tiny hands not being a strong enough deterrent compared to the endless gnawing of their stomachs. Mukuro decides to give them a better reason to stop.

Screeches of pain fill the air as fire slowly consumes the creatures. Leaving Izumi surrounded by a circle of ash and charred bone. Pieces of once green hair singed to her father’s shade and clothes bearing small holes where embers fell upon them. The girl notes, slightly hysterical, that invisible flesh leaves visible ash.

_ I guess we’re all equal in the eyes of fire. _

Mukuro’s sister shakily stands and runs towards him. Tears of pain and fear spilling out of her eyes. After only a few steps, she falls to her knees, her frame shakes. Blood leaks from the chunks missing in her legs. Her landing snaps a brittle bone left from one of the creatures. Izumi screams as if it were one of her own.

The terrible smell of burning flesh floods her nose and dying howls ring in her ears. Teeth marks cover her arms, aching and oozing blood. Their shape is disturbingly human, but intent wise they’re completely beastly. The taste of ash on her tongue is quickly replaced by that of vomit.

Izumi can’t breathe. Ashes of once living beings go down her throat and liquid comes out. The handfuls of air she gets aren't enough. Even when the vomiting stops, it isn’t enough.

_ I’m going to die here. Eaten alive by monsters in Hell. I don’t want to die. All Might save me, please! I don’t want to die. _

Mukuro stares at the hyperventilating girl, unsure of what to do. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around his sister. It’s a terrible mimicry of a scene he saw in her mind. His arms stiff and loose compared to her mother’s tight, comforting embrace. Izumi doesn’t complain or question what he is doing. She simply wraps her arms around him and buries her head in Mukuro’s shoulder. Shielding her eyes from the ring of fire protecting them.

And so the children hold each other tight as Hell screams around them.

When the test subjects wake up, the researchers considered it a success. They had successfully proven soul sibling Mists can reincarnate together in the same location. Also that multiple people can hold the power of the Six Paths at once. There was another thing they had successfully done, though they didn’t know it at the time.

They had successfully sealed their fates.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Izumi is returned to the containment room, no one asks her what happened to her. What she has just been through. That is _ because _ they know something happened. It shows in the hunch of her shoulders, and is made even more obvious by her left eye. Which, unknown to the girl, now glows a deep red. Her pupil replaced by the kanji for _ two _.

That obvious horror is why they do not ask. They know better than to poke at fresh wounds for curiosity's sake. Not willing to see if it would be her or them to bleed. Instead, the other children refuse to approach her at all, avoiding the chance of her lashing out at them. That is, everyone except for two boys with matching chains.

“Why do you have that thing around your neck-pyon?” Joushima Ken asks after blatantly staring for a few minutes. His more composed, unnerving counterpart doing the same. They stand so close together that her tear blurred vision momentarily merges the two into one being. Izumi stares blankly for a moment, not completely with them. Comprehension slowly dawns on her, like the sun rising after the longest night of the year.

“Do you mean the chain soul mark! Is it still there?” Izumi exclaims worriedly, she frantically starts rubbing her neck to check despite knowing the mark isn’t tangible. She hadn’t considered the possibility of her reincarnation removing the symbol, but suddenly it’s all she can think about. No one would ever accept her as soul family without the mark to prove it. Could she have lost her family before even getting to know them?

“Yeah the chain thingy is still there! Calm down,” Ken shouts, snatching the girl's hands away from her neck. Luckily, she doesn’t lash out with her legs. Nor does she appear to be angry. Which is good, because Ken rather likes being able to walk.

“Unless the chain is a bad thing. Should we be panicking?” Kakimoto Chikusa counters. The _ we _ throws Izumi off. _ Are they…. _

“No! Soul marks are a good thing. They mean that you have an extra mama or papa that will love you,” Izumi explains in simplistic, childish terms. Leaving out the _ looks _ people give her mom when they find out that her daughter has five soul marks.

_ “There is a high chance the poor dear isn’t going to live too long. Why else would such a good mother not be enough?” _

Neither does she tell them of adverse reactions from parents of soul marked children. The distance or clinginess they show to their children as a result. Some fearing the loss of their children to strangers, others feeling they already have.

(“_ You left because he has too many marks? Bullshit-you’re probably the reason he needs so many, _ ” Aunt Mitsuki had growled at Hisashi during a late night call. Izumi wasn’t supposed to hear that. She wishes she hadn't, _ You’re the reason mom doesn’t have a husband, _ the voices hisses, _ You’re a sign that your mother’s going to die. _)

The girl doesn’t even think of telling them about fearing rejection. Of seeing the marks littering her skin as a prophecy. One she desperately fights not to fulfill.

_ (Mom will not accept you as Izumi. The second she finds out you can say goodbye to her love. She’ll want nothing to do with you anymore. That’s why you have so many soul marks. Don’t speed up the inevitable by telling her. Play pretend for as long as you can. Enjoy her love while it lasts.) _

Izumi omits these details without any remorse. Unable to bring herself to explain the complicated reality to their hopeful faces. Knowing that at least one person will love you should be a simple fact. Something guaranteed unless you’re a complete and utter jackass. But to the children in front of her, this appears to be new information.

“And you know what the best part is? You can share a soul parent and have brothers and sisters too,” Izumi continues, voice soft and reverent. Despite the complaints of classmates who have them, she’s always wanted siblings. To have more people like Kacchan, who know her and push her to follow her dreams. To play and laugh with and hold on to for the rest of her life.

It doesn’t take long for the boys to come to a decision.

The dark haired one pulls down his shirt collar, revealing a chain mark low on his neck. His animalistic friend quickly follows suit with a playful grin.

“The name’s Joushima Ken and-”

“I can introduce myself,” The bandaged boy interrupts. Ken glares at him, not without malice but considerably more playful. “Kakimoto Chikusa. May we know our sister’s name?”

“I’m-,” She pauses, unsure of what to say. Was she still Midoriya Izumi after being reborn? The life she had a mere week before now seems terribly distant and impossible to return to. For all she wishes she could, it is a dangerous dream. What if she accidentally brings her monstrous captors to her mother’s doorstep? Could her organs eventually fail if she never learns to use her Flames? The ways things could go terribly wrong are countless.

For better or worse, she is no longer Midoriya Izumi. The girl she once was didn’t fit into this world. She wasn’t meant to die over and over again. Was never meant to be seperate from Kacchan and her mother. Who she is now is someone completely different, and they need a new name.

“Rukudo Izumi,” The Mist decides. Going with the name of who she assumes is her oldest brother. The one who went through literal Hell with her.

Her brothers notice her hesitance, but don’t ask. The name seems to make her happy, and that’s what’s most important.


	5. It's like a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I rewrote the beginning like five times to get it right.
> 
> Also, I should probably explain how parental soulmates work in this story. When a child is born they may have tattoo-like mark(s) on them. Something that symbolizes someone who will be a parental figure in their life. And if they are their soul-parent's first child, the mark will appear on the parent too. After the first soul-child though, they cannot tell when one of the 'kids' is born. They can, however, feel when they die.

Not every kid who wishes to be a hero will become one. Most children dream of fighting against villains and grow up to avoid them on their way to work. Backup plans are highly encouraged for a variety of reasons. (Unless you are a certain blonde brat who's reaction to such a thing could be described mildly as explosive and more honestly as nuclear) Izumi found hers in an underground containment cell in Italy. A good a place as any to make important decisions only when your life expectancy is less than ten years.

“And this color is green,” The younger Rukudo announces to the small group of children that surround her. An array of eyes follow her every move, and little feet tap with undisguised impatience. Their familiar behavior almost makes Izumi feel bad about how she gawks at hero fights.

In a blink their hard prison floor transforms into soft green grass dancing on an invisible breeze. It's like a dream. Light laughs fill the air as the blades tickle their skin. They’re quiet, restrained things. Almost like dogs scared to approach their invisible fence for fear of being shocked. Nearly no one truly believing themselves to be hidden from their captor’s ears. Still, some take a risk and laugh. Izumi’s chest swells with pride.

“Ooooh. Miss Zumi, Miss Zumi! What’s this thing?” Little Gianna asks, her head barely visible as she squats amongst the tall grass. Izumi nervously wills the plants shorter, not wanting to lose someone in the illusion. And more than a little scared of what could happen to them if she did. Would they be lost in the world she created forever? Stuck physically and/or mentally in the gorgeous field until death or beyond. Even Mukuro does not know the limits of their shared power, something that scares him more than he cares to admit.

The Mist is pulled from her grim thoughts by a tiny hand being shoved in her face, and the even tinier creature upon it. The grass becomes even more vibrant as Izumi recognizes the spotted bug. Her excitement beating realism into a corner. Everyone but Ken looks to the creator, curious about the color change.

“What is it Miss Zumi?” the young girl yaps with excitement boiling under her skin. Rukudo's strange reaction adding kindling to the fire of her curiosity. The Mist gives a mysterious smile. “Watch.”

“Everyone, cup your hands!” Orders the tiny pseudo-teacher as tiny red dots whizz through the air. Most comply, some with more hesitation than others. Chikusa watches with awe as a tiny red bug lands gently on his fingertips. The boy gently redirects the crawling insect to the center of his hand. Not wanting the frail looking creature to fall of the edge.

Peals of laughter once again fill the space as little insects crawl on ticklish palms. The children are distinctly louder this time, both a sign of faith in their Mist and a challenge. A middle finger to the turned backs of their captors and fate. Even the borderline cackles are music to Izumi’s ears.

Still, something feels off. Incomplete like a picture of All Might with his symbolic hair cropped out or an Ingenium action figure missing a piece of armor. There’s a notable gap in the image. But what? Izumi runs through a list in her head.

Grass, check.

Insects, check.

Wind, check.

Sk-

Izumi buries her face in her hands. How could she have forgotten something so big? If Kacchan were here he’d laugh at her until he cried. The girl is pulled from the pity corner of her mind with a tug on her arm. A scrunched face stares up at her, a closed hand close to their mouth. Light brown eyes glaring with the intensity of a petulant puppy.

“Miss Zuuuuuumi. If you don’t answer me I’m gonna- I’m gonna eat this red thingy!” Gianna threatens playfully. Izumi is admittedly tempted to let her. To find out what would happen if someone ingested her flames. If they have the terrible flavor of a regular ladybug or something else entirely.

She doesn't though. Because as curious as she is about her powers, that doesn't give her the right to use others as lab rats. To die knowing nothing is better than having someone die because of her. So instead she points to the ceiling, and like puppets, the insects are pulled upwards. They spread and multiply in the air, covering the stone like a twitchy, legged carpet. Izumi lets out a pulse of purple flames and everything changes.

Black shifts to a blanket of vibrant blue, patches of soft white, and a warm yellow. For the first time in many of their memories, the test subjects see the sky. It is not a perfect replication, its creator not having been outside in little over a year. The clouds are too symmetrical and the sun too large. It’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.

_ Or second, _ Ken thinks while glancing at his siblings’ soulmarks.  _ A very close second. _

“That’s the sky,” Izumi announces, voice flowing into the ears of every inhabitant without even raising being raised. In less than a second a warm presence presses into her side. The force of the near tackle hurts like Hell, but the Mist welcomes the child with open arms. Even as the fabric of her shirt becomes wet where a tiny face buries itself in her ribs.

_ Sky _

The word rings through the air and against her ribs. Burrowing itself into the mind and hearts of the captives. Chikusa says it softly, with a reverence usually reserved for prayer. Amethyst eyes now soft like the petals of a flower. The sheer  _ wonder  _ in them knocks the breath out of Izumi’s lungs.

The sight behind him stops her breathing entirely.

A young boy leans against a blooming Magnolia tree. A pink blossom cradled in his hands. It matches his eyes.

Izumi knows this despite them being shut, having seen them daily until only a week ago. Seen them light up as someone returns alive and tear up when they do not. Having witnessed them turn to ice around their captors and melt around his friends. She wonders what she will see in them now. What emotion will shine through the eyes of a dead boy?

_ Click Click Click _

The lid of his Davide’s eyes slowly begin to rise as the tapping of heels echoes from outside the room. Their time is running out. She tries to will his eyes open, to see them one last time. Yearning to replace the fear she saw in his eyes when he was taken with something else, anything else. Even burning hatred or frozen apathy. Her effort is wasted.

The being in front of her is not an illusion that bends to her will or a human she can manipulate. They are both too real and false for her powers to have the effect she desires. Instead of open eyes she gets flowers growing towards the sky. Tears of frustration burn her cheeks.

** _Click Click Click_ **

If it was only herself at risk Izumi would wait. Wait as Davide had done for her and the others time and time again. Staying up for hours on hours to welcome them back with a tired smile and open arms. Never allowing someone to return from their personal Hell alone. The horror on her brothers’ faces stops her.

Chikusa doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Fear slowly turning him to stone, amethyst eyes growing dull. He looks like a stone angel in a graveyard of the soon to be dead, not that the ones who die here will get graves.

Ken is, as always, his brother’s opposite. Light brown eyes shining with a wild desperation. Claws digging into the wall he’s backed himself into. The illusion begins to shatter underneath his shaking hands.

Color drains from the sky like blood from fearful faces. Soft grass dissolves into dust yet leaves none. Walls of stone rise to return an endless horizon to what is always truly was, a twenty foot cage of darkness and stone. Dream falling away to a terribly real nightmare.

Davide disappears last, fading into the air like rising smoke. She never even gets to glimpse the pale pink of his iris. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

_ "I’m Sorry" _

_ _ All that Izumi is is packed into those words.

_ I’m sorry I didn’t save you. I’m sorry I can’t save the others. I’m sorry I can’t be what you were for them. I’m sorry for trying to replace you. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry _

** _Click Click Cli-_ **

“Ingenium is the fast guy right? The one that takes a lot of side-kicks.” Gianna’s question is deceptively simplistic and mundane. The meaning behind her words thinly veiled. Like a restaurant secretly run by the mob done right. “You think I can be like them?”  _ Can I be a hero? Can I save us? _

A spark glows in Gianna’s eyes. Izumi wants to feed it and stomp it out in equal measure. To kill the damn thing before it can burn her friend to a husk, or worse, to ashes on nauseating air. So she doesn’t have to once again look into dull eyes and wonder if their bearer is better off dead.

_ Can’t you see what happens to the good ones, _ the jade-eyed child internally screams.  _ They break, they die, they don’t come back.  _ These thoughts burrow shame deep in her guts, and writhe like maggots in a corpse. Heroes save by giving hope, not destroying out. If there is a chance she has to take it. What does she have to lose by trying anyway? Here, waiting kills too.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Hide me.”

_ Screee _

Gianna races towards the door on feet silent as an owl’s wing. She moves like a particle of air. Fast, yet unseen and unfelt. Cloaked in flames of Mist. She’s past the door in three seconds. Down the hall in two more. Has her hands on the door in one-

** _Bang Bang Bang_ **

Three gunshots, then silence. For a minute noise abandons their small world. There are no screams or groans of pain. Sobs and shrill cries do not yet shake the air. Izumi wants to believe it’s because of her Mist flames or good luck. (But she knows it is not. None of them have ever been particularly lucky. They’re here afterall.)

“Nice try cub,” The child-killer purrs. Baring her fangs in an expression mirroring the one she had beheld on Gianna’s face mere moments ago. Izumi had not known  _ hope _ could be so sickening. “But you should never leave out scent, or any sense really. Never know who your opponent is going to be.”

The murderer’s tone is mentorish- borderline motherly. As if she were talking about a better way to make muffins instead of a mistake that cost someone their life. Revulsion crawls up Izumi’s throat.

Rukudo refuses to look around for comfort, she knows there won’t be any. She had gotten Gianna killed. And for what? A flimsy hope? Dreams of a world she can barely remember? Is that really worth her life?

Izumi cannot bring herself to fight the hand that drags her down the hall. Sharp claw-like nails tap against her skin, but avoid drawing blood. There is enough of it staining the hall already. Red on the walls, the floor, her hands.  _ RedRedRedRedPink- _

Meadow eyes catch on a scene at the edge of her vision. A tall tree, a sitting boy, and a running girl. Pink eyes smile and shine in the light of a fake sun. Tiny arms fling about wildly in open space.

Forgiveness is given, but not received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely sure what All Might's soul-mark should be. (The one showing he's a soul parent) There's:  
A) The M or V his hair makes in his different forms (switching back and forth to be confusing as fuck)  
B) A cheeseburger (to not be too obvious)  
C) The wound under his shirt (for angst)  
Or D) Any good suggestions that are given.   
I'd love to hear your opinion's on the matter!


	6. To Mourn What You Never Had

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Rehearsal has been getting longer and longer with the play coming up.

If you die and are reborn in the same body mere minutes later, are there truly any lasting effects on the world? Can anything big be changed by one only momentarily leaving the land of the living? The answer is yes, especially when soul-parents are involved.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patches of sunlight shift ceaselessly over Nicola’s outstretched legs. A continuous flow of left and right, dark and light, as a cool breeze starts up and abates. Branches and their leaves dance with the wind. Like a ballerina, a bright red apple makes a daring leap towards the sky-

“Ow”

-and hits the fair haired teen squarely on the head. His companion lets out a small laugh. Heat rushes to Nicola’s face.

“If you had been working instead of laying around, it wouldn’t have hit you Nicola,” scolds Lancia tauntingly. The slight smirk he wears stretching the twin scars on his left cheek. Nicola’s face burns even hotter, as if someone pressed a just-used clothing iron to his cheeks.

_ I should smother his face with a pillow,  _ the blonde internally grumbles with the petty fury of a wet cat.  _ Or- _

Nicola throws the apple towards the other teen’s head with considerable force. Lancia merely moves the basket up to catch it. A polite smile on his face.

“Thank you for finally being helpful. Though I’m not sure if the apple is safe to eat. It did touch  _ your _ face after all,” Lancia drawls mockingly. He grabs the apple for an exaggerated inspection. Looking over each side thrice with excessive nods and hmms. Nicola shifts an arm out from under his head to flip him off.

“You’re a little shit Lancia. A tall little shit,” Nicola grumbles as he finally pulls himself up to sit. His hand stretches out entreatingly. The other teen heaves a sigh but still indulges the childish request.

“And you’re a lazy bum,” Lancia states, blunt as battering ram. Shifting the apple-filled basket against his left side to free up his right arm. A calloused hand held out for his friend. The blonde grabs it without hesitation. Pulling himself to his feet with enough force to pull a weaker man’s arm out of its socket.

Lancia cannot bring himself to mind. Not when Nicola is little more than an inch away from him. Smiling that damn stupid grin of his. Lightly stepping on his toes as he leans in.

_ It’s almost like a painting at one of Boss’ auctions,  _ Lancia thinks. A gorgeous sun casting delicate shadows across the world. Trees with long, elegant branches, looming protectively in neat rows. A landscape of rolling hills rising to meet massive clouds. And in the center, the most stunning man in the world, grinning like a fiend in his arms.

In that moment, all Lancia knows is warmth. The press of calloused hands and chapped lips against his own. Warm blood rising to his face. Sunlight falling against his back, and a strange feeling in his heart. It is a beautiful moment. Worthy of being painted by the likes of Patinir or Raphael.

What happens next can be best described as this. A jackass walks up to a beautiful painting with a bucket of ice water, and dumps the whole thing onto it. With only Lancia able to notice the world melt around them.

Deadly cold slips down Lancia’s spine like fresh blood down a wall. It sinks deep into his bones. Weakening them until they creak and crack and break. Burrowing deeper and deeper into his soul until he’s completely hollowed out. Empty and soulless, like his now deceased soul-child.

Some people assume the feeling of losing a soul-child would grow easier with repetition. That one can somehow get used to what can best be described as the feeling of a piece of your soul breaking off. Those people are dead wrong. And if they ever say that bullshit to Lancia, they’ll be dead the literal way too.

There is no amount of preparation or strength that can save one from the emptiness. No amount of drugged numbness or adrenaline high can hold back the pain of  _ losing _ that part of oneself. It doesn’t matter if it’s their first, third, or even the hundredth time. (Though as someone who has experienced it four times, Lancia doesn’t think getting to a hundred is possible. Not when one can chose to abandon rather than to be abandoned. To leave before they can hurt you.)

A small object is forcefully pressed into Lancia’s hands. A simple pocket mirror, smaller than the teen’s palm. It sits heavy as a bolder in his hand, and yet it clicks open with the press of a finger.

A shaky breath shudders its way through his tan throat. The motion moves the soul-mark resting upon it like a boat on the water. Breathe in, bob up. Breathe out, settle down. 

There’s something calming about the simple repetition of breathing. The rise and fall, stretch and contraction of the soul-mark. _His_ _soul-mark._ Designed like a metal chain high on his throat. Dark, jarring, and _still existing._

_ _ Lancia rests a hand just below the chain-pattern the universe engraved into his skin. His fingers come close to the edge, but do not touch it. As if the mark is a treasure too sacred for his hands or a cursed, dangerous object. A heavy feeling makes itself known as a sob. Is it of relief or sadness? Anger or pain? He can’t really say. What is there to say?

Somewhere out in the world, a child is dead. A child that was meant to be his. Their body grows cool while he is warmed by the sun. The child’s soul-mark fades while his lingers. They were taken by death, and he only gets a taste.

All Lancia truly knows in that moment is what he’s always known, that life is truly unfair.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dino Cavallone is many things: a hopeless klutz, unwilling Mafia heir, enthusiastic equestrian, and universal punching bag. That is, if one considers the universe to be a toddler sized man with a shape-shifting chameleon and a loaded gun.

A gun the Acrobaleno has in a suspiciously tight grip, Dino notes while avoiding his homework. The cursed-man went from confident ease to  _ something  _ far from it in less than a moment. Alarm bells ring in the Cavallone heir’s head.

Dino leans back from his desk in a casual stretch. His hazel eyes furtively scan the room, lingering on the windows and door, but they find nothing. Nothing he can see anyway.

The heir opens his mouth to ask but quickly shuts it again. Questioning Reborn is asking for trouble Dino can’t afford. Especially when said questions are about the hit-man himself. It is better to know nothing than to know nothing  _ and  _ be hit with a hammer. Or having to fight a bear- or having the room blown up again- or

“Get back to work, Pipsqueak-Dino.”

“Yes Reborn,” Dino answers with a nervous shout, to both Reborn’s amusement and disapproval. The tinge of sadness in the Acrobaleno’s voice goes unremarked on. Relief simmering in his dark eyes unquestioned. Matching chameleon marks remain neglected, because Dino knows better than to ask when he might not like the answer.

Dino Cavallone is many things, and an idiot is  _ not  _ one of them (but a child is). 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you could get rid of any bad memory, would you? Would it be worth it? To never have to feel hate or argue because you cannot remember how someone has wronged you. Not having to feel disappointment because you don’t remember expecting anything. Never being afraid because you don’t know what you should be scared of. To never feel grief or bitterness because you don’t remember what you’ve lost. Could a person be happy this way? Would the world be better off like that?

Wasureru Nana used to smile and nod as people debated her quirk for hours on end. Arguing over how it could be used, how  _ she will _ be used. What their daughter (tool) would do with her power. Who she will be.

Decisions were made and unmade. Legal and moral questions brought up, dismissed, then brought up again. Arguments created and countered. In the mess of ambitious plans and far off dreams hundreds of questions were asked and answered, both critical and benign. Yet they somehow forgot to ask the most important one. What does  _ Nana  _ want?

_ All I want is for everyone to be happy. _

So she makes them forget her entirely. Sawada Nana never does wonder if she made the right choice. She doesn’t even remember needing to make it. Or the world she tried to leave behind, and the one thing she couldn’t. (Wasureru Nana hoped forgetting about her quirk would prevent herself from using it. In the end, all it got rid of was the choice.)

Maybe it’s better this way. Wasureru Nana could have been great, but at what cost? Villains reformed by turning them into a clean, manipulable slate. Killing pieces who they were, who someone could have loved, to squish them into the role of ideal citizen. A cult of happy, hollow people-shaped puppets.

Maybe the world is better off with Sawada Nana. The happy and oh so  _ forgetful  _ housewife.

“Mama, why are you crying?” Sawada Tsunayoshi groggily asks his mother. Brown eyes fixed perplexedly on the tears that slide down his mother’s previously smiling face. They shine in the light of the early morning streetlights. A small laugh echoes across the kitchen. His mother’s hand, wet from washing the dishes, comes down to gently pat his head. The other pulls her apron to her face to wipe away her tears.

In a few minutes, she would believe the water stains to be from the dishes. Another memory lost to a need for perfect, unbroken happiness.

“Don’t worry my little Tsuna. The tears are gone now! Mama’s happy again!” The the kind, broken woman reassures her child. Her words are frighteningly earnest coming from a grown woman’s mouth. As if she truly believes emotions are that simple. That  _ people  _ are that simple. Tsuna yearns to ask more, but doesn’t. Because this is his mother and this is how she’s always been. Weird and inexpiable (wrong and broken).

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ Bzzzzzzz _

The cellphone shakes in Aizawa’s hands. Familiar numbers turn into glowing blurs. He can’t tell if it’s tears or exhaustion messing with his vision. Both seem likely when it’s three in the morning and the world’s gone to shit.

_ Bzzzzzzz _

Shouta tries to think of what to say when the other side picks up.  _ If  _ they pick up at all considering the time and ya know,  _ the whole their son might have just died thing. _

_ “Aizawa Shouta, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hang up on you right now. You raccoon-eyed insomniac asshole!”  _ Mitsuki rages over the phone, her volume almost deafening. Another series of shouts soon join hers, too muffled to be in the same room and too loud to be neighbors.

_ “Shut the fuck up Katsuki! I’m on the phone.”  _ Relief feels like a punch to the gut in many ways. It brings tears to his eyes and steals his breath with it’s force. Causes him to curl into himself with guilt. And oh how it  _ hurts _ .

Part of Shouta hates that he’s relieved. Katsuki not being dead doesn’t change the fact that someone else is. Some other child who hasn’t even seen a decade. Who probably has people who love them and will mourn them just as much as he would've grieved over Katsuki. He can’t deny the truth though.

Aizawa is grateful the blonde brat is not the one dead. That he can hear the boy screaming curses with his mother at three in the morning. Glad that he will be forced by Inko’s kind smiles and sweet demeanor to eat the brat’s burning curry from Hell again.  _ And most of all _ , he thinks, his gaze falling to the teary eyed soul-mark on his elbow.  _ I’m glad Inko didn’t lose another child.  _

“Sorry, wrong number,” Shouta lies smoothly before hanging up. His phone vibrates from its place on the pillow. Inbox flooded with a tsunami of middle fingers.

Aizawa Shouta smiles despite himself.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes it’s the beautiful things that hurt us. Grand rivers overflow and drown the life around them. Fire’s flickering dance consumes whatever it can. Caring nothing about the screams of its victims or charred destruction left in its wake. Majestic trees fall and crush everything in their path. A soul-mark reminds one more of what he has lost than what he has.

Yagi Toshinori gazes with remorse at the soul-mark over his heart and wonders. Wonders why his soul-mark rests over his heart, where his mentor’s once had. One for All’s glowing star-like orbs and arcs both a testament to her grand legacy and sacrifice. The centuries long battle that  _ will  _ end with him.

Wonders whose death coats his lungs with frost and what their connection to him was. There aren’t very many possibilities. Not with Melissa safe on I-Island and his infrequent interaction with  _ anyone  _ outside of work. Could it have been a young fan who idolized him? Someone he once rescued? If history repeats himself, the hero may never know.

_ Maybe it’s their quirk _ , he both hopes and dreads.  _ Maybe they come back to life in the end. And maybe they don’t. Maybe it’s too late to save them. _

_ Maybe…Maybe….Maybe… _

The truth will hurt worse than his most pessimistic fears. For the truth is real, and so is it’s consequences.


End file.
